


Anchor

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Some angst, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 01:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15939140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: Illya and Napoleon take care of each other after a mission gone wrong.





	Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for the sentence “Come over here and make me.” for Lokianawinchester over at tumblr. :) It was supposed to be smutty but angst took over the story in the end. 
> 
> Note: I cheated, of course, and split the sentence to two. :P

Illya listened as the bathroom door creaked open. The silence that ensued after told him something was wrong. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw Napoleon leaning against the bedroom wall, grief still written all over his face. 

Hours ago, an explosion had hit them during a mission, leaving a number of UNCLE agents seriously wounded. Some had even succumbed to their injuries. Though they both had escaped the harrowing moment, it had left them shaken. The mission was duly halted and Waverly had ordered them to lay low in a designated safe house until their planned extraction the next morning.

The place they were in wasn’t spacious. It had the basic necessities with a room and one bed, and Illya knew the moment they had stepped into it that there wasn’t going to be any privacy for either of them. To decompress. To process in their heads what they had seen or heard. 

All that blood. The wails for help. 

Illya wished they could’ve done more. And he knew Napoleon felt the same.

When his mind returned to the present, Illya noticed blood was trickling down the side of Napoleon’s face. He had ruined the stitches on his temple somehow, but seemed not to pay any attention to it. It was as if his injury was nothing compared to the agents who’d lost their lives earlier. Like he didn’t care for his well-being.

But Illya did.

“You are bleeding again,” he said softly. 

He watched Napoleon and studied him in the dim light of the room, zoned in on the sharp turns of his jaw, the way the corners of Napoleon’s lips began to turn downward, quivering. There were tears glistening in his eyes. If he was any other man, Napoleon would’ve probably fallen apart. But he was the strongest person Illya had ever known, even if he was showing his vulnerability right in front of Illya at the moment.

“Cowboy, _come over here_ ,” he commanded but Napoleon remained rooted to where he’s standing. 

Frustrated at Napoleon’s stubbornness, Illya stood up from the bed he was sitting on. But his sudden movement made his aching body scream, his injuries forcing him to stop and take a steady breath. He tried to hide his wince, but failed. Miserably, he sat back on the bed at once, shutting his eyes and groaned in pain. 

“You’re hurt too.”

Napoleon was already at Illya’s side when he opened his eyes again. His hands were gripping Illya’s shoulders. Illya told Napoleon he was fine but the American wasn’t impressed at all by Illya’s lies.

“Peril, we were both there. We were both thrown off from the jeep when the blast hit. So stop fucking lying to me.”

“Arms and sides hurt,” Illya finally admitted underneath his breath and Napoleon nodded. He quickly disappeared into the bathroom once again to fetch the medical kit and came back into the main room only to see a deep frown on Illya’s face.

“I wish we could have saved them,” Illya muttered before Napoleon could say anything. “I wish..”

“I know, Illya,” Napoleon answered softly. “I wish it too.”

Napoleon gently lifted Illya’s shirt. He tended to the bruises on Illya’s ribs, cleaned the cuts on his arms and shoulders and afterwards it was Illya’s turn to take care of Napoleon’s ruined stitches. Napoleon hissed every now and then while Illya worked on him, but other than that he remained quiet and sat still with his eyes closed. He breathed, trying not to think of the screams. Trying not to think of the dead. 

Once Illya was done with his task, Napoleon set the medical supplies aside and let the silence engulfed them. He did not know what to say to make things better for them but when Illya moved closer next to him on the bed, putting his arm around Napoleon’s shoulders, Napoleon let out a shuddering breath. Illya’s touch was familiar and peaceful in ways that everything else in their lives weren’t. His comforting hold was always Napoleon’s anchor. Grounding him from falling too far where no one could save him. And when Illya tightened his grip, Napoleon simply melted in his hold. He wished he could stay in Illya’s arms forever. Until his body stopped aching, until the screams in his head were gone. But he didn’t want to be selfish. Napoleon knew Illya was hurting too, and he wanted to do everything he could to stop it.

Napoleon wanted to mend Illya, make him whole. He wanted Illya to feel better.

So, he turned in Illya’s arms and cupped his face. Swept a thumb over his cheekbone. Illya leaned into the touch and then he was staring at Napoleon’s face, at the tapped gash on his temple. From what Illya had seen earlier, Napoleon’s wound was deep and ugly. But fortunately it will heal though the scar will remind them of their ordeal.

Illya reached out to skim a finger on the gauze. “Wish this did not happen.”

Napoleon just shrugged. “A mere scratch. At least it wasn’t you holding me all bloodied and dead.”

Illya’s eyes widened. During that split second he wanted to kiss Napoleon. For being stupid, for making Illya’s gut churn painfully at that idiotic remark, for that sad smile that was now spreading across Napoleon’s handsome face, understanding he had been insensitive. Napoleon muttered a low, “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.” 

Their eyes lingered on each other before Illya said, “sorry or not, you need to stop talking so much.”

_“Make me.”_

Was it a challenge? Because, of course he could make Napoleon stop talking. Easy. There were many ways that he could do just to shut that sinful mouth. But Illya didn’t want to think too much of it. His hand moved to cup Napoleon’s cheek, thumb rubbing arcs over his skin. They savoured the moment. Appreciating that they were alive and breathing.

But how long would it last? How long until everything’s taken away from them?

The idea of ever losing Napoleon soon got to Illya and he couldn’t stand it any longer. 

Leaning in, he angled Napoleon’s chin, and brushed their lips together, the touch chaste. Too chaste. But it still garnered a whimper out of Napoleon. Illya realised then that he didn’t need anything or anyone else other than Napoleon to touch him, to be near him. It made him understand that what he had in front of him was worth everything in the world.

Illya only needed his stubborn, beautiful Napoleon. 

So he leaned in to kiss Napoleon again. And again. And again. He pushed aside his pain to make Napoleon gasp and writhe under his touch. Dragged his lips over every inch of Napoleon’s skin. And when Illya finally took Napoleon inside his mouth, Napoleon fell back against the bed, arching his back, useless fingers clutching the sheets, his parted lips eliciting breathless moans that would forever echo in Illya’s mind. Soon, they both surrendered to everything that the other could give; the dizzying pleasure diminishing their physical pain and wiping away the unwanted screams in their heads, the memory of the blazing heat and the smell of burning flesh gone. Maybe this was all that they needed. The desperate want to escape and feel something other than sadness and loss.

The sense of belonging and love. 

And they finally found it in each other.


End file.
